


The Adventure Of Mr. Staunton's Hair-Piece

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [76]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Framing Story, M/M, Murder, Slow Burn, Theatre, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wigs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Once again a geographical connection links a murderer to their crime, which Sherlock pins on them with the help of some glue and a statue on wheels.





	The Adventure Of Mr. Staunton's Hair-Piece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Centaurlips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Centaurlips/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Comedy and tragedy are represented in the traditional dual-mask image as interlinked faces and this case, which occurred after the two published cases known as _The Veiled Lodger_ and _The Sussex Vampire_ , certainly contained elements of both. And it was a combination of the vanity of the murderer, coupled with some astute observations by my brother Sherlock, which led to a killer paying the just and final penalty for their crimes.

Coincidentally Kean took me to see the play mentioned in this story two nights before Sherlock took Watson. I can truly confirm that yes, it really was as bad as the good doctor made out. Fortunately Kean then took me home and more than made up for his poor choice in stage entertainment by... well, a gentleman never tells but I really do wonder where he got that rope from....

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

I was a _good_ person. So I had waited until we were both safely in the cab and headed back to Baker Street before I yielded to the urge and laughed uncontrollably.

“That was so bad!” I guffawed. “I have seen many plays in my time, but without a doubt that was the worst by a country mile!”

Holmes was clearly amused at my merriment.

“We certainly seemed to hear a lot more of the prompter's voice than any of the actors'”, he admitted. “And the choice of music did leave a little to be desired.”

“A little?” I said incredulously. “Little Betsy singing, 'and I heeeear, o heeeear the Execuuuuuutioner's Soooooong'? Even by the standards of modern melodrama, which frankly are not that high anyway, it was dire!”

“And the shock revelation of the man in the cupboard, who fell over a broom and swore an oath during his dramatic entrance”, Holmes agreed. “Yes, I think that this particular work of art will not be gracing the larger West End stages any time soon. We can but hope that we never see its like again! Poor, poor Betsy!”

He raised his hand to his forehead in mock horror, and that set me off again. I little knew that this was that rarest of occasions, a time when Mr. Sherlock Holmes would actually be wrong about something. But I would soon find out, in one of the strangest cases that we had ever encountered. And the hilarity involved was tempered by the fact that it all ended with a killer indeed hearing the executioner's song, as they faced the long drop to Hell.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I have mentioned before that on Holmes' return I sold my surgery in Paddington and moved back in with him. Although I did not do regular hours, there were however certain elder (and richer) clients there who wished to retain my services so, with the agreement of my successor, I was 'hired' to do occasional visits to their houses. I had enough money to live on, but any extra income was welcome.

I was due to go out the morning after the play to visit one of these clients, so I was up early and dressed when Holmes slouched out of his room looking rough even by his standards. Rather unusually Mrs. Hudson herself brought in our breakfast trays that morning; she usually delegated the task to one of her maids as we were on the top floor. 

“You went to see that play _The Executioner's Song_ last night, did you not sirs?” she asked, setting out the plates.

“We did”, I said. “It was truly dreadful!”

“It was for someone else, too”, she said. “They were found dead after the performance.”

I stared in shock. She passed Holmes a coffee and he drank it straight down.

“It is in the _“Times”_ this morning”, she said. “The man was found in one of the back rooms. It was only when they were cleaning the theatre afterwards that someone found him and tried to wake him, and.... well.”

“It was a dreadful play”, Holmes said, “but I doubt that it could actually have claimed a life if only because dying of sheer tedium is relatively rare. Thank you for bringing the matter to our attention, Mrs. Hudson.”

She smiled and left us to our food. 

“Does the newspaper say how the man died?” Holmes yawned. 

“They found a dagger nearby”, I said. “They are carrying out a post mortem today, so more will be known after that.”

He yawned again and went to start his meal.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I have mentioned before that, although Holmes and I tended to have very different social circles, a rare mutual friend was Doctor Peter Greenwood who had featured in both our lives. He was by this time Sir Peter, having saved the life of a Most Prominent Personage by his swift actions at a ball he had been attending for his surgery (it had been fortunate he was there, as the people arranging the event were amongst those who funded his surgery and had only invited him when another doctor had fallen and broken his leg). I shall not reveal the name of the lucky gentleman, but he was such that the government itself was exceedingly grateful and our mutual friend found himself elevated to the nobility, much to his surprise. 

I bring this up now because if was Sir Peter who was to drag us back into the death at the theatre. After I had treated my patient for what was really a sore throat exacerbated by rabid hypochondria we chanced to meet at my favourite dining-establishment in Trafalgar Square, and he mentioned that he had been at the play as well.

“One of the supposed perks of being a baronet”, he said. “You get free invitations to such things because they know the newspapers the following day will be listing those who attended. I am surprised that they have not started criticizing your friend for allowing a murder to take place only yards away from where he was sitting, though I suppose that will soon follow.”

“What did you think of the play?” I asked. He winced.

“It was hard to work out which part was the worst!” he laughed. “I found myself actually timing Little Betsy's dirge; it went on for over twelve minutes. I went mainly because I knew Jack – Mr. Rhodes, the theatre manager – as I had to treat him one time. I had gone backstage afterwards to thank him and they had just found the body, so I was the first to examine it.”

“What did you find?” I asked.

“Death occurred between seven and half-past”, he said, “and was very obviously due to a dagger wound, the weapon being next to the victim. That concurred with what Jack told me. The room where the body was found is at the end of a dead-end corridor and he was stationed at the entrance to it where it meets the stage. He was there all the time except during the girl's caterwauling, when he 'claimed' that he went to the toilet. I rather suspect that he just wanted to get out of screeching distance!”

I chuckled at that.

“Is your Mr. Holmes going to investigate the case?” he asked. “It must be rare, a killing taking place so close to him and him unaware of it.”

“Do not tell him that!” I said. “He will take it as a personal challenge.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

As it turned out I was too late. I arrived home to find Holmes less than happy.

“The _“Times”_ lists all the great and the good at that awful play”, he fumed, “and made a point of snarking about my inability to spot a crime 'almost right in front of me'. Am I to be held accountable for all crimes that occur in a set radius around my person?”

“I spoke to Peter”, I said soothingly, “and he has arranged with his friend Mr. Rhodes the theatre manager to come round this evening and tell us everything he knows.”

He was still clearly annoyed, and I could only hope that our visitor could throw some light on the matter.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. Jack Rhodes was a smartly-dressed man of about forty years of age, and I noted that he wore a temperance badge on his cloak. The word that I instinctively thought of was 'dapper', although that thought was quickly followed by another more unfortunate one that I had known several well-presented murderers.

“I had better start by explaining the layout of the place”, he said, accepting a cup of tea. “As the audience looks at it, I was off stage to the left. There is a whole set of levers, lights and pulleys that the stage manager Fred – Mr. Sutterthwaite – operates during the performance, and I was right next to him.”

“Could he have left his post?” Holmes asked. “Or have not seen anyone pass him?”

Our guest shook his head.

“You will remember that during Little Betsy's song – and yes, I know how awful it was! - there were two spotlights on her whilst the rest of the stage was in darkness”, he said. “Because we do not want those powerful lights to come on accidentally their levers have to be held down or they will come back off, which means that Fred must have been there. The lever cannot be wedged into position or anything. I came back just as the terrible din was ending and he was still there. But he stands with his back to the corridor and there is a sizeable gap, so someone could have slipped by him. ”

“The corridor leads to four actors' rooms”, he continued. “That is fortunate, as the play requires four main actors who... well, they are actors. Not the easiest of people to get on with. Everyone wants the largest dressing-room, their name first on the billboards, _et cetera_.”

“The _“Times”_ names the dead man as a Mr. Charles Staunton”, I said. “Who was he, exactly?”

Our guest sighed.

“He was the man who funded the play”, he said ruefully, “and not too popular because of it. Have you heard of the play's author Miss Edith Austen?”

We both shook our heads.

“Because she shares the same name as one of our greatest writers, she appears to believe that she shares her talent”, Mr. Rhodes said heavily. “Sorry I am to tell you this, but _The Executioner's Song_ is the second part of a trilogy, three crimes against literature for the price of one. The same actors, backed by Mr. Staunton, put on the first part _Now We Are Five_ in a small provincial theatre last year. It sank like a stone.”

“Yet he insisted on doing the second part as well?” I asked, incredulously. “Why did the actors agree to it?”

“They all signed a three-play contract”, Mr. Rhodes explained, “so they were legally bound to do it. You know how irregular an actor's income can be. I am very much afraid.....”

He stopped, but we both knew what he was afraid of. And he was quite probably correct.

“Tell us about the actors”, Holmes pressed. “I assume that the girl playing Little Betsy is excused, since she was under the spotlight.”

To my surprise, Mr. Rhodes shook his head.

“Miss Amy Shaw cannot carry a tune to save her life!” he said. “Fortunately her sister Patricia, who is a year younger and similar in appearance, has a tolerable voice even if the tune was abhorrent. She the one was on stage for those twelve fateful minutes, and when she ran off crying per the 'script' – I knew how she felt! - that enabled us to substitute her sister back on. And the three other actors were all in the dark, so one of them could easily have slipped away and down the corridor for a few moments.”

“But she is a child!” I objected. Mr. Rhodes shook his head.

“A dwarf as is her sister”, he told me. “And she would do it, too. She is one of those ladies who is heavily into women's suffrage, and getting her to stop talking about it is a Sisyphean task!”

I smiled at that.

“Mr. Henry D'Abitot is a cousin of the deceased”, Mr. Rhodes went on. “He must be innocent, however.”

“Why?” Holmes asked. For some reason Mr, Rhodes blushed.

“He, ahem, has a rather unfortunate hair-piece”, he said, staring anywhere but at us. “I am sure that you noticed it, as he insists on wearing it in his part. It is really incredibly bad and quite distinctive. Albert, one of the stage hands, says that he saw a figure standing near the back right of the stage, where Mr. D'Abitot's character was before the 'song', and could make out the hair-piece catching the light from the back. He and the boys call it 'Henry Junior'!”

I sniggered and even Holmes smiled.

“Mr. D'Abitot is about fifty and of average build”, Mr, Rhodes said. “I incline more towards Mr. Horace Shallow. He is not yet thirty, very athletic, and it was known that he had had words with the victim, demanding to be let out of his contract. Mr. Stanton had flatly refused. And not to forget Mr. Joshua Gardiner, sixty years of age, who played the old gentleman. He and Miss Shaw hate each other something fierce. His problem is that he wants to retire without the blot on his name that this awful play will doubtless make, and the others want to carry on careers without being remembered for Little Betsy's caterwauling.”

“You said that the victim was found in one of the four actors' rooms”, Holmes said. “Which one?”

“Mr. Shallow”, our guest replied.

“And who found the body?”

“Also Mr. Shallow”, Mr, Rhodes said. “He went back to his room after the performance was over, and called out in shock when he saw someone was in his room. Mr. D'Abitot was across in his room and thinks he was there in about ten seconds, so I doubt that he had time for much. But perhaps earlier?”

Holmes pressed his long fingers together and stared at your guest. I knew what that presaged, and I was right. I counted to eight before he broke.

“Yes”, he sighed. “There was something else. We have sets of pumps for people to wear during performances so they can move around quietly. When I the victim was found, I noted that very oddly one of the pumps was off his foot. I saw it by the door as I left. But when I came back with Peter, both pumps were on his feet.”

“Well, that seems fairly obvious”, Holmes said. “Watson, can you please pass me the atlas?”

Mystified, I did so. He evidently looked something up then smiled and nodded.

“And the theatre where the prequel to this travesty was inflicted on the poor public was in the lower Welsh March, perhaps?” he asked.

“Yes, in Cheltenham”, our guest answered. “How did you know that?”

“I am pleased to say that the doctor and I will be spared a further performance of Miss Austen's 'efforts'”, Holmes said. 

“You know who the murderer is?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “Mr. Rhodes, I take it that there is no performance tonight?”

“No”, he said fervently. “It was cancelled as a mark of respect. But the actors are at the theatre rehearsing for when we do re-open. And I am sure you know what the public is like; many will attend the next performance hoping to see a second killing.”

“Then let us go and catch a murderer!” Holmes smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

I was not pouting at his not having told me who it was, as we walked down between the seats to the four actors waiting for us on the stage. I was not.

“If you want a hint”, Holmes whispered, “remember the marked cards case.”

Oh yes. A case that Holmes had solved partly because a man's coat had not been wet. That _really_ helped!

I was still not pouting when we reached the stage. Introductions were kept to a minimum, but even so I rapidly came to the conclusion that Peter's friend had understated the sheer awfulness of these bohemians. They were so full of themselves that they would have given some of the politicians I had had the misfortune to encounter a run for their money. Possibly even a certain brother of my friend who, very reluctantly, Holmes had allowed back to Baker Street for a case last week, albeit only after he had apologized to Mrs. Hudson and brought her a huge bunch of red roses, her favourites.

“Thank you for being here”, Holmes smiled. “We are here tonight to say which of the five of you murdered Mr. Charles Staunton.”

Five, I noted, not four. And Mr. Rhodes was palpably sweating.

“Get on with it, man”, Miss Shaw snapped. She had long blonde hair and was wearing enough make-up to keep a department store going for some time. “I have a train to catch!”

Holmes just looked at her. She subsided, scowling.

“Let us speak frankly”, he said. “You all, each and every one of you, had motive. The reviews of this play and its predecessor in which you all featured, have run the gamut from mocking to openly derogatory. Had you been compelled by the contracts that you all signed with Mr. Staunton to partake in the third instalment of this work, it would have severely damaged your careers.”

He turned to Mr. Rhodes.

“You, of course, had only this particular instalment in your theatre”, he said, “but that alone doubtless did considerable damage. People will remember the _”Gaumont”_ as 'where that Betsy play was so dreadful someone actually died', and might well be deterred from coming in the future. On the other hand, and sorry I am to say this, there is nothing like a murder to drum up trade. The British public has an unfortunate sense of the _macabre_ , and I can guarantee that regardless of the, ahem, quality of the writing, many will be turning up at the next performance if only in the hope of another murder.”

I winced at his frankness. The fact that he was certainly right did not help.

“So, to the killing”, Holmes said. “This was an exceptionally well-planned crime which, had the killer not made three small mistakes, they might have succeeded in getting away with. Mr. Rhodes. As we were coming here, I asked you a rather unusual question which you answered in the affirmative.”

“You did”, he said warily, “although I do not see why having the statue on rollers was of any import. In the theatre we often need to move large objects like that around.”

“It was important because it featured in the crime”, Holmes said. “And Mr. D'Abitot? Doctor Watson is holding a gun in his pocket, so I would not risk making a run for the wings if I were you.”

He moved swiftly and had handcuffed the stunned actor before he could react.

“You cannot prove a thing!” he said scornfully. “I want my lawyer.”

“I think that might be your next mistake”, Holmes smiled. The other question I asked Mr. Rhodes was about the victim's marital status, which elicited the reply that he was single. And hence the case was solved.”

“How?” I asked, totally confused.

“Mr. D'Abitot arranges to meet his cousin briefly during the performance”, Holmes said. “I know not the reason behind that meeting – I would wager some financial problems are involved – but what mattered was that Mr. D'Abitot intended to kill his cousin. And since Mr. Staunton had no children, the wealth would all go to him.”

“But they were only distant cousins”, Mr. Rhodes objected. “Second, or so he said. He was not even a Staunton.”

“Yes he was”, Holmes said. “That was the first clue as to his guilt. Mr. Charles Staunton's family comes from the Gloucestershire village that bears his name, which lies some way north of the county town. That, incidentally, was how I was able to place the first performance. Like most actors, his cousin adopted a different performance name, taking a surname from the nearby village of Redmarley D'Abitot. I had a minor case in the area many years back, so I know of both places. The motive for the others was loss of reputation, but for him it was the gaining of much wealth.”

“His hair-piece has suggested to him what seems an unbreakable alibi. He knows that, during Little Betsy's twelve-minute song, the spotlights will be on her and the rest of the stage will be pitch black. No-one would be surprised if one or more of the other actors had slipped off for a break at this time, but he needs to be 'seen', even though he is not there. So he places his hair-piece on the statue, moves it to his position, and slips away. The stage-hands could only see a dim outline in the dark, but they could make out the distinctive hair-piece.”

I looked instinctively at the 'rug' on the actor's head. It was indeed quite distinctive. And quite awful. I wondered if it might sit up and beg if I waved a dog-biscuit at it.....

“He has arranged to meet his cousin in his room”, Holmes went on. “Poor Mr. Charles Staunton suspects nothing up until the moment his cousin sticks a dagger into him. It is over in seconds.”

Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Shallow both edged away from the cuffed man.

“I do not doubt that the walls and doors of those rooms are solidly built”, Holmes said, “to prevent any sound from carrying to the stage. Mr. D'Abitot drags the body across to his fellow actor's room, and in doing so makes his next mistake. Following theatre rules his cousin is wearing pumps, in order to minimize noise. As he is dragged to his final destination, Mr. D'Abitot does not notice that once of them has become dislodged. And that, sir, is where you made your third and final mistake.”

He reached into a bag he had been carrying and pulled out a set of pumps which, I assumed, had been those worn by the victim. He stared hard at Mr. D'Abitot.

“On our way here”, he said, “we called in at the police station where the evidence for the case was being held. In the presence of a witness I examined these items, which were worn by your victim, and I found something very interesting. A human hair.”

“So?” Mr. D'Abitot sneered. “Lots of people have hair, Mr. Holmes, in case you didn't notice!”

Holmes smiled dangerously.

“It was not the hair that interested me”, he said, “but what was on it. Fortunately the police doctor was able to carry out a rudimentary test on it which proved exactly what I had suspected. In the normal course of events, the hair would not have adhered to the outside of the pumps but this one had – because it had a thin coating of a special adhesive application that is sold to those who wear hair-pieces.”

Mr. D'Abitot seemed to be having trouble breathing.

“You only spotted the displaced pump after the body had been discovered”, Holmes said. “You knew that if it was spotted, someone might conclude that it had fallen off because the body had been moved which might as a result lead the police to search your room where, I am sure, there was some evidence of the crime. You replaced the pump – but it betrayed you by trapping one of your hairs on its surface. And there is something else.”

Holmes smiled darkly at the actor, then walked over to where the statue was at the back of the stage. He pulled up a nearby box and vaulted effortlessly onto it, looking down onto the statue.

“And what do we have here?” he said in mock horror. “It looks like some form of adhesive....”

Mr. D'Abitot yelled an obscenity and tried to rush at him, but his cuffed hands unbalanced him and he sprawled to the floor. Mr. Rhodes and I rushed to contain him, after which the manager left to summon the police.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“ _Heavens To Betsy_ ”, Holmes said once we were back in Baker Street.

“Pardon?”

“That is the name of the third and final instalment of Miss Austen's trilogy”, he chuckled. “I wonder if anyone will ever be prepared to put it on the stage?”

“ _That_ ”, I said stiffly, “would be more than ample justification for murder!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
